


Wingul's Compendium of Things That Shouldn't Be Hard But Are

by AroJade (AlleyCatSunflower)



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: F/M, Fade to Black, Love/Hate, Not Canon Compliant, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Seduction, Sex Without Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyCatSunflower/pseuds/AroJade
Summary: From walking to the baths from his room to apologizing, nothing seems to be going right for Wingul this evening, and it's all Presa's fault. Less humorous than it seems at first glance, although you should take the title literally later on. No spoilers.





	Wingul's Compendium of Things That Shouldn't Be Hard But Are

_**Entry One:** _ _Walking to the baths from his room._

It was just around the corner.

True, Wingul had already started disrobing before he realized he wanted a nice soak before bed, but no one would notice if he was quick about it. It wasn't as though having no shirt or shoes was terribly scandalous anyway. Mostly, it was just that… well, as a former Long Dau prince, any state of undress was considered less than professional.

Centering himself, Wingul took a deep breath. No one would see him. Stealing out of his room, he shut the door softly behind him, and strode around the corner before he could convince himself otherwise. But unfortunately, his second thoughts were almost immediately proven right, as he was confronted with a certain former Rat exiting the baths.

Presa  _was_  fully dressed, thank the spirits—if you could consider her appearance in her latest outfit as such. Wingul halted mid-step, frowning. He'd seen her wearing it once before, but he'd been in a bit of a hurry to make sure Agria wasn't about to burn down the royal garden (again). He hadn't had much of a chance to take it in, which was definitely a mixed blessing.

What little of it existed was comprised of skintight dark blue fabric, kept in place by crossed laces. Was that… leather? Wingul narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the material. Given how similar most of Presa's wardrobe seemed to be, he'd need to be as specific as possible if he wanted to request a royal ban on this one.

"And just what are you staring at?"

Presa's somewhat annoyed voice sounded faraway, and Wingul realized suddenly that this was probably not the best way to appear innocent. His eyes snapped up to hers with an effort, his thoughts settling on the most logical course of action.

* * *

_**Entry Two:** _ _Telling the truth._

Wingul cleared his throat. His mouth had gone dry, and words seemed difficult to come by. How would he be able to explain that he hadn't been ogling her? His reputation wouldn't stand for anything less than the truth. "Your outfit is… beginning to unnerve me."

"Want me to take it off?"

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, Wingul crossed his arms, giving her as dirty a look as he could as he kept his eyes on hers. She was fiddling coyly with one of her ribbons, but no matter how distracting the motion of her fingers was, he was  _not_ going to let her walk all over him.

"You're no fun," said Presa, when Wingul continued to say nothing. "Anyway, His Highness said I could wear what I want, and this is a tactical advantage in battle, if you ask me. Most of my enemies won't know which way to look."

"Neither will your allies," said Wingul, choosing his words carefully. Loath as he was to admit it, Presa knew exactly how to scramble a man's senses. Only his lingering distrust of her kept him safe, and even then, he was still capable of being caught off-guard.

"If you say so, Wingul," said Presa, and he grit his teeth, eyes sliding to the door behind her. He just wanted a bath. He did not want to have to deal with this kind of tension at this time of night. Why wouldn't she just step aside instead of tormenting him? And why was she so intent on making him uncomfortable to begin with? "Got something you'd like to tell me? I'm all ears."

Wingul heaved a deep sigh, momentarily burying his face in his hand. "No. I'm simply saying that by your logic, this is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage."

Presa raised an eyebrow, adjusting her glasses. "His Highness hardly ever looks at me anymore, and Jiao doesn't seem to have any problems with my attire, so I'd say you speak for yourself." Wingul barely had time to be angry before she gave him a faint, somewhat smug smile. "Is  _that_ why you've been so clumsy around me lately?"

* * *

_**Entry Three:** _ _Coming back from an insult._

Wingul glared into Presa's eyes, resenting her height almost as much as the amusement sparkling in her gaze. With those ridiculous shoes, she was only a few inches shorter than him. This wasn't fair. "You're out of line," he snapped, longing to insist that he had  _not_  been clumsy, but neither of them could resolve an argument like that without resorting to violence. Better just to pull rank and have done with it.

"Fine, fine," said Presa, eyeing Wingul's clenched fists, and leaned against the doorframe. Just enough of her was blocking the door that he'd have to touch her if he walked in, and physical contact was out of the question. "No need for hostility."

More than anything else, it was Presa's tone, smooth and calm and self-satisfied, that stirred the embers of anger in Wingul's heart. They hadn't spoken this much alone since her arrival in Kanbalar, and as he recalled, that had gone about as well. "Get dressed," snarled Wingul, taking a few menacing steps forward.

"Put a shirt on," retorted Presa, maddeningly unruffled, and crossed her arms, outfit gapping slightly.

Wingul fidgeted. He was not going to let someone like her get the better of him. " _I'm_  going to take a bath. What's your excuse?"

Presa pursed her lips. "I'm not going to waste my breath repeating an explanation you apparently didn't like," she said, and Wingul made a derisive noise under his breath, shoving her aside and storming into the bath. "Sorry."

Wingul glowered back at her. She wasn't even a little bit sorry. "Just put some  _proper clothes_ on." Not once had he ever seen her in anything that wasn't either ridiculously form-fitting or showed an absurd amount of skin.

To his muted astonishment, Presa gave a curtsy—albeit exaggerated—and sashayed away. As she rounded the corner, he wondered if she knew the definition of 'proper' clothes, but merely shut the door, resolving to think of it no more. That part wasn't his problem.

* * *

_**Entry Four:** _ _Saying exactly what he means._

Half an hour later, Wingul had soaked away his problems… but most of them came back again as soon as he walked out the door.

Presa was leaning against the wall again—wearing  _his cape_  as a lopsided skirt, fastened at her right thigh. His eyes darted up past the fur at her waist to discover that she had apparently decided his coat would suffice for a shirt. Her midriff was exposed, and such was the cut of the jacket that almost everything else was, too.  _Almost._

Shock gave way to blind fury, and Wingul strode forward as though someone had pushed him into action. "I—" he spat, the beginnings of a remark that would rip her to pieces, but cut himself off. There were no words low enough to describe her. A whore wearing the garb of a former prince? And she had gone into his room, through his things, to get them!

Presa only smirked, adjusting her glasses. "Honestly, these clothes are literally yours. Don't you consider them proper?"

"Not the way you're wearing them," growled Wingul, grateful for his anger to clear his head.

"Oh, come on," laughed Presa, and Wingul stopped breathing. "Your shirt was too tight in the chest, so of course I'm not going to wear it. This is enough to make me decent." She traced the high hem of his coat, drawing his attention down to her fingers, to her exposed skin. Were it not for his concern about staining his own clothing with such unworthy blood, he would cut her down then and there.

"You think  _that's_ my problem?" hissed Wingul, shifting his weight forward, and glared into her eyes.

Presa held his gaze. More than that, she appeared genuinely, infuriatingly disinterested. "Well, if you think your clothes are defective, then I think I'll just keep them." She turned away, and Wingul's hands twitched with the desire to strangle her. "Thanks for the tip. Proper clothes are so much more comfortable than I thought."

"Presa."

She turned to glance over her shoulder, shifting her weight to one hip, and her tail swished in an extremely distracting way. "Yes?"

Wingul stepped forward. Too close, he knew, but he had to make it clear how serious he was. "Take. My. Clothes. Off.  _Right_.  _Now_."

"We're in the hallway, you know," said Presa, in a way that sounded almost like a plea, and Wingul narrowed his eyes. He could get used to that note in her voice, but there was an undercurrent there he didn't like so much. Mischief?

"I don't care," retorted Wingul, turning his back after a brief pause. He  _had_ just ordered her to give him back his clothes out in the open; he wasn't so inconsiderate as to just stand there and watch. Even if he would be well within his rights to do so, all things considered. It would only complicate matters, to say nothing of ruining his image.

"Suit yourself," said Presa, her voice a deliberately sensual sigh, but he heard no rustle of clothing. Instead, her tone lowered, and he felt her warm breath on the back of his neck. "I had no idea public indecency was your kind of thing." A shudder ran through Wingul's body—whether from disgust or some kind of sick anticipation, he didn't know—but before he could whirl around and confront her about whatever scheme was up  _his_ sleeve, her hands slid around his torso… and into his waistband.

* * *

_**Entry Five:** _ _Phrasing his commands effectively._

Wingul froze for a moment, heartbeat as rapid and breathing as ragged as if he had been running, before grasping Presa's wrists with such intensity that he could hear her half-afraid inhalation.

"What are you  _doing_!" he hissed, releasing one of her arms abruptly and yanking the other one around so that she stumbled and fell to her knees before him. Blind anger was rare for him; he always prided himself on his presence of mind. But it seemed Presa was an exception to every rule.

There was a pause while they both caught their breath, but it was broken by the sound of Presa's soft laughter. "You said to take your clothes off,  _right now_ ," she giggled hoarsely, "so I was taking your clothes off. Right now." Wingul blinked. Had he really said it like that? "You should really start thinking about your wording."

Wingul growled in the back of his throat, opening his mouth to give her a talking-to. He had no time to wonder why Presa seemed so suddenly alarmed, or why she was looking around, before she leapt to her feet and charged him, pressing her hand against her mouth and slamming him into the wall next to a column.

* * *

_**Entry Six:** _ _Breathing._

Even after Wingul's head had mostly recovered from smashing into the wall, everything still seemed to spin. One by one, he noticed things he wished he could forget, and what disquieted him most was that anger was no longer one of the emotions that made his heart pound ever faster.

First of all, he noted that Presa had not removed the hand clamped over his mouth. That wouldn't have mattered so much if he had been given a chance to close it before she covered it with those long and supple fingers. Wingul debated biting her to get her to let go, but another realization cut the impulse short.

Presa's head rested on his shoulder, barely touching his cheek as she peered around the column behind which they hid. From this angle, he recognized that she must have removed her high heels upon changing into his clothes; he could have leaned forward and rested his chin in her hair if he wanted. Her other hand pinned one of his wrists to the wall, just beside his aching head.

Most alarmingly, Wingul realized with a jolt that could feel every one of Presa's breaths, as well as the flutter of her heart. Her chest was pressed against his; he never thought that the fabric of his own coat could possibly be so maddening as it stirred against his skin. But that was nothing compared to the sensation he noticed next: their bared midriffs were touching.

No—not merely touching, but  _pressed together_. Nothing whatsoever separated them; he could feel her muscles tense momentarily against his before relaxing again, and the rippling motion awakened some long-buried instinct he'd ignored till now. His breath caught in his throat, his mind gradually letting go. Pressure. Her  _thigh_. Presa's leg was arranged carefully between both of his, barely brushing his groin, as though she was doing it on purpose.

Wingul made a valiant effort to hate the feeling slowly spreading through him, but found that he could no longer think straight. Just when he thought he would be able to stand it no longer, Presa peeled herself away from him suddenly.

He rubbed his mouth, some sensation returning to his forgotten brain as he heard a door open and shut some distance down the hallway. For a moment, he found himself almost grateful for Presa's intervention. Not that he wasn't still furious (or at least, not that he didn't still have _reason_ to be), but the last thing he wanted was for anyone  _else_ to see him like this. Especially not with her wearing his clothes.

His thoughts once again shut down, however, as Presa kept her grasp on his wrist and led him swiftly to his own bedroom, closing the door behind them.

* * *

_**Entry Seven:** _ _Taking orders._

"That was close," said Presa, altogether too matter-of-factly, as she crossed her arms and leaned against the door. Wingul merely stared at her; didn't she know what she had done? "But we should be all right now."

"Give my clothes back and get out, _now_ ," said Wingul, wincing as his voice cracked from the stress of maintaining control. This was his last chance to save himself; he would still be able to (mostly) forget tonight's events as long as they proceeded no further.

"Well, aren't you an impatient one?" asked Presa, smiling in the dim light, and Wingul almost felt sick at her misguidedly knowing tone. "But there's just one little problem. I'm not going back out there stark naked, no matter  _what_ you order me to do."

"Why not? You've slept with half the men in Kanbalar."

Wingul didn't know what made him say it. Maybe he wanted to see that flash of anger, tinged with the barest hint of hurt, in Presa's eyes. But she smothers it again upon the instant, though she does not trouble to attempt her usual smile. Instead, her voice is every bit as venomous as his own. "If you can say something like that with so much confidence, you must be watching me  _very_  closely. I'm flattered."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," snapped Wingul, frustrated. Presa had already warned him about his phrasing.

"Then bring me a change of clothes from my room as an apology." Presa drew her key out of  _his_  pocket and tossed it to him, and Wingul caught it automatically. He debated dropping it again, but then she continued, "If you'd rather, we could wake His Highness and see whose side he takes. Just remember—I'm not the one whose stubbornness might make that necessary."

Wingul grit his teeth. Smiling serenely once more as she recognized her victory, Presa bowed him out, and he had no choice but to follow her instructions.

* * *

_**Entry Eight:** _ _Coming out of the closet._

Presa's room was just as he imagined it,  _not_ that he spent a great deal of time thinking about such things.

Most of its space was taken up with a king-size bed (complete with luxurious chiffon canopy); the rest of it was devoted to her appearance, as she had also been given a wardrobe, a dresser, a vanity,  _and_ a walk-in closet. He had no doubt they were all full, but decided his best prospects lay in the closet.

However, predictably, finding something up to Wingul's standards of decency was no easy feat. For several minutes, he ended up simply looking around at the vast number of outfits at her disposal. Half of them were so sheer he wondered at their point; most of the other half showed so much skin they should barely qualify as clothing at all.

Never had he imagined for a moment that he would  _ever_ consider her everyday wear 'proper' compared to anything, but quickly realized as he stood and stared that she could easily have worn something even more suggestive than that blue laced outfit. From now on, it would have Wingul's approval, not that he'd ever openly admit it.

But then, he hadn't tried the wardrobe yet.

Wingul soon discovered that, like most things involving Presa, this was a mixed blessing. To imagine her wearing any of these outfits was simultaneously enticing and disgusting; he ran his hands along the racks of clothing, pausing here and there to rub some smooth material or other between his fingers absentmindedly.

"Silk satin," he muttered, arriving at a robe that—lo and behold—looked like it might actually cover her. Seizing it, and taking one final glance around the closet, he practically flew back to his room. The last thing he needed was for anyone to see him run out of Presa's quarters with a robe like that. If they did, the rumors would never stop.

Fumbling with the key in his hastiness, he finally wrenched the door open and closed it behind him, leaning against it with a sigh a moment later—and suddenly noticed that his clothes were strewn about the floor.

* * *

_**Entry Nine:** _ _Opening his hand._

Wingul's eyes slowly followed the telltale trail of black to his bed, where (with an odd mixture of dread and anticipation) he predictably found Presa, no glasses on her face, sitting with the blankets only around her waist—but hugging her knees against her chest, as though mocking him.

He wasn't about to wait for her to make some remark on the amount of time he'd taken. Wingul held up the robe, blocking his own view, and turned around wordlessly, extending his arm to the fullest behind him. At this point, it was all he could do to maintain his increasingly more fragile self-control, and he did  _not_ want her to test its strength.

"One of my personal favorites," said Presa, and though he could not see her, there was a smile curling around her voice. His heart skipped a frustrating beat as he heard her slip out of his bed, and the thought crossed his mind that  _he was going to_ sleep _in that bed tonight_ —

He didn't notice his fist was clenched until her fingers pried at his in an attempt to loosen his grip, and he dropped the robe out of surprise. She caught it, laughing softly, and he leaned his head on his arm against the door. She was what the Long Dau would call a scarlet woman, and here he was playing right into her hands.

"You can turn around now," she said, after a silent pause, and Wingul made the mistake of trusting her.

* * *

_**Entry Ten:** _ _Apologizing._

"Haven't you ever seen a naked woman before?" asked Presa, teasingly, a hand on her bare hip, but Wingul hardly comprehended the words. Art wasn't always puritan, so of course he'd seen naked women before, but no painting could compare to the sight of a living, breathing woman, standing tall before him without the slightest effort to cover herself. (It was also a little bit different because Presa, unlike most women in art, possessed a tail.)

"What do you  _want_ ," said Wingul, as unable to look her in the eye as he was to look at any other part of her. One would assume, since she bared so much of her body daily, that it would have desensitized him to complete nudity, but apparently, that was not the case. It was all he could do to utter the phrase whose answer he no longer truly cared for.

Presa smiled, taking a couple steps forward, and Wingul backed into the wall somewhat warily as she approached. It had been difficult enough to deal with close proximity last time, and then, she had still been wearing something. "An apology," she purred, halting directly before him, and leaned in—but did not touch him.

"An apology," repeated Wingul in a strangled exhalation, not fully understanding the word, and reached towards her cheek before he fully understood what he was doing. She half-closed her eyes at his light touch, like a contented cat, but did not reciprocate.

"Yes," she murmured, crossing her arms in front of her chest. His fingers skimmed her cheek and neck briefly before grazing the curve of her shoulder. "Acknowledge that I am as much a member of the Chimeriad as you are. Say you're sorry for treating me like a Rat, even after His Highness accepted me."

Wingul let out a long breath and withdrew his hand, the spell broken. How dare she use something as low as  _this_  as a bargaining chip. A little of his previous rage seeped back into his heart, and he took advantage of the courage it afforded to bare his teeth. "Or what?" he asked, leaning against the door with the merest hint of a threat. By no means was such a bestial sin appealing to him with regard to any ordinary girl—but the idea of vanquishing  _Presa_  so utterly—

A single corner of Presa's mouth tugged up. "You think you can beat me in a fight without your sword by your side? I could blast my way through that door if I wanted and run crying to His Highness, and  _you_  might have to get off your high horse—if you were lucky enough to keep your head."

Wingul took a cautious step around Presa, away from the door, reluctantly declawing himself. He couldn't help but see the truth in her words, and instinctive guilt for the violence of his impulse welled up in the wound to his pride. "I am not on a high horse."

"Maybe you're right," said Presa, raising a teasing eyebrow, her eyes fixed unabashedly on his. "You don't strike me as much of a rider."

Wingul chose to ignore this, knowing that any reply he gave would give her a further advantage. "And if I were to refuse your conditions?" he asked instead, but his voice came out husky, and Presa's giggle told him that she knew he would not.

"I would take my robe and leave," she murmured, and finally reached her own hand towards Wingul's face, her fingernails skimming the outline of his jaw. "But…" She took a single step towards him and leaned forward slowly, curving her lips up to whisper. "I don't think either of us wants that."

"Either of us?" asked Wingul, doing his best to keep his expression stony, but could already feel it cracking. Presa merely laughed in response, retracting her hand and swaying as though to step back again, but Wingul caught it again before she could drop it to her side, and pressed it against his chest.

"Apologize first," said Presa, offering a slight, soft smile, but there was a distinctly dangerous edge to her expression. The warning sharpness of her eyes was echoed in the perfect fingernails under his hand, digging slowly but surely into his chest—more and more painful as the seconds ticked by.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," hissed Wingul, releasing her fingers and observing the marks on his chest.

Presa smiled, her hand relaxing and falling, but it caught itself on his waistband, and he tensed. "And what are you sorry for?" she asked, barely audible, her hands slipping around his waist to his lower back and below, fingernails continuing their urgent pressure as they went. He grimaced, unable—or perhaps simply unwilling—to extricate himself from her thorny embrace. They were so  _close_.

"Say it," said Presa, smiling at Wingul's expression, and his mind surfaced abruptly for air, enough to remind him not to let her walk all over him like she had done with so many others.

"No," said Wingul, though his voice was a groan, and her nails dug into him sharply.

He gave a guttural yelp, and she grinned, trailing her fingernails up to the back of his neck. "Tell me, Wingul, what are you sorry for?" asked Presa, bringing his head down so that he could taste her sweet breath, but their lips did not meet. He leaned in, frustrated, but she held a hand between their mouths, then grasped his chin. One cruel fingernail toyed with the edge of his mouth, and Wingul shook his head to rid himself of it, but Presa merely smiled, unfazed.

She would stop at nothing but an apology. For being higher-born than her. For discriminating against someone whom he rightfully did not trust. An ally of several months whom he  _still_ did not fully trust. "Never," growled Wingul, glaring. "I have done nothing wro—"

His last word was cut off by a sudden slap, and he clutched his cheek, recoiling, knowing it stung so much only because of the injustice. Did one insult, justified by the offense Presa had dealt him first—did  _one_ insult warrant so many minutes of torture, so many mind games?

This would not do.

As soon as Wingul had straightened up again, he seized Presa by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. Hearing the breath rush out of her body, and seeing the momentary glint of fear in her eyes, afforded him a satisfaction the nature of which he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He leaned closer to her, enunciating clearly. "I will not tell you lies," he breathed in her ear, and relished the shiver he could feel running through her body. "I will not give you false apologies. I regret  _nothing_  I have said or done to you. I would do it all again."

Withdrawing his head again, Wingul released Presa's shoulders. Having spoken his mind at last, he let his eyes wander as they would, knowing she would be well within her rights to rip it all away from him and leave him alone, like he deserved—to seize her robe and stalk off, just like she had said she would. But she made no move.

"An honest man," murmured Presa eventually, tapping Wingul's chin lightly to bring his eyes back up to meet hers. "And I thought I had seen everything."

Wingul moistened his lips. "Presa," was all he could say, helplessly. To his own ears, his tone sounded foreign, too desperate, too pleading to be his own, but she finally brought his mouth down to meet hers, closing her eyes, and his voice vanished altogether.

When their positions had been reversed, when  _he_ had been the one pressed against the wall, everything had stood out so clearly, each sense distinct from the others—but now, it was all a blur, each sensation blending together. The hand she had held over his mouth loosened his pants; his fingers were tangled in his hair as she trailed her mouth softly to just below his jaw. Their breaths and heartbeats were one, alternating shallow and deep, rapid and slow. Their bare bodies were pressed together, not even a coat separating them this time.

But he wanted to be closer still.

Wingul breathed an incoherent half-thought in Presa's ear, not conscious enough to know if it was Long Dau or her tongue, and not caring. She understood his tone, and smiled into his neck; they moved away from the wall, somewhere between wrestling and dancing. "I'll go easy on you," she assured him with a wry smile, which disappeared in favor of surprise as soon as he pushed her onto his bed none too gently.

Pinning her wrists, he arched over her, making a point of observing all the finery beneath him that would soon be his. As he did so, Presa's smile returned, and she squirmed beneath him, moving her legs apart with an enticing swish of her tail. "Aren't you ambitious," she purred, and the hiss her breath made at the end of the last word was lengthened as Wingul gave her his wordless apology.


End file.
